fine young fellow. She lived in the village, and her husband came home there from the line every night.
"Your goings on with the women will lead to trouble, my boy," said I.
"Well, may be, . . ."
And after a moment's thought Savka added:
"I've said so to the women; they won't heed me. . . . They don't trouble about it, the silly things!"
Silence followed. . . . Meanwhile the darkness was growing thicker and thicker, and objects began to lose their contours. The streak behind the hill had completely died away, and the stars were growing brighter and more luminous. . . . The mournfully monotonous chirping of the grasshoppers, the call of the landrail, and the cry of the quail did not destroy the stillness of the night, but, on the contrary, gave it an added monotony. It seemed as though the soft sounds that enchanted the ear came, not from birds or insects, but from the stars looking down upon us from the sky. . . .
Savka was the first to break the silence. He slowly turned his eyes from black Kutka and said:
"I see you are dull, sir. Let's have supper."
And without waiting for my consent he crept on his stomach into the shanty, rummaged about there, making the whole edifice tremble like a leaf; then he crawled back and set before me my vodka and an earthenware bowl; in the bowl there were baked eggs, lard scones made of rye, pieces of black bread, and something else. . . . We had a drink from a little crooked glass that wouldn't stand, and then we fell upon the food. . . . Coarse grey salt, dirty,
